A Promise Broken
by Keesha
Summary: Callen and his team deal with Dom's death. Set after the season one episode "Found".


This is a rather long tag to the first season episode "Found". If you have seen the movie Lethal Weapon you'll recognize the file cabinet joke. Usual disclaimer, I own nothing and of course reviews are always very much welcomed and appreciated.

His team was devastated. He was shattered. For once, the blond man was not hiding his emotions as he dejectedly stood on the rooftop, his pain easily visible for the whole world to see. Though he knew she was watching, they all were watching, he didn't care; it was too raw. This catastrophe was being broadcast, he knew, on the ultimate viewing screen, with camera angles that put it front and center in Ops and she had just witnessed his spectacular failure in living color. Earlier he'd promised they would find Dom; the unspoken part of the promise 'and bring him back alive' had been implied. They had found Dom, but they were not bringing him back alive and she now knew it; a promise broken.

Standing apart from his teammates, he squinted up at Kensi, who was collapsed on the fire escape, then down at Sam, who was on his knees mourning the dead body of their comrade. As team lead, it was his role to be strong for them, to bury his emotions and bring them thru this crisis. Looking angrily down at the blood on his hands, he wanted to smash something, put nine more rounds in the already dead Kalil, or run as far away from this nightmare; but he couldn't. He had to gather up the pieces of his team and do whatever it took to put them back together. Having led them into this mess, it was now time to lead them out. Nothing would bring Dom back to life, dead was dead; but his team was alive and he had to mend them or Dom's death would be meaningless.

Sadly shaking his head, he turned his back to Kensi, Sam and the cameras as a few unbidden tears slid down his tormented face. Watching the blue sky, he fought for control, biting his lower lip so hard that the hot taste of iron flowed across his tongue nearly making him vomit. Cursing, he deliberately slammed shut the gates of his mind. 'Focus,' he rebuked himself. 'On the team. On the living part of the team.'

After a quick swipe of his sleeve across his eyes, he turned back towards Sam. Closing the distance between them, he said nothing as Sam silently reached down and closed Dom's eyes.

The city rooftop suddenly exploded with sound and action. The LAPD burst thru the door with the Medevac team close on their heels. The medics spilt up, each heading for a prone body. Two made their way over to the fallen Dom and tried to nudge Sam out of the way to examine the patient.

"He's dead," Sam said flatly, refusing to be moved.

The emergency medics still went about their administrations, ignoring the grieving man. They had a job to do and until they ascertained the victim was deceased, nobody was going to stand in their way.

"I said," Sam growled, shoving the nearest med-tech away from Dom, "leave him alone. He is dead!"

Callen stepped in and intervened. "Sam, give them some room," he requested placing his hand on Sam's arm, to maneuver the grieving man out of the way. "They're just doing their job big guy."

Sam violently pulled free from Callen's grasp. "They have no job. He's dead. Where were they ten minutes ago when he was bleeding out? Why weren't they here then doing their job?"

Callen know what Sam needed, how his partner coped with fear, anger and stress; only Sam's normal relief mechanism wasn't hanging nearby, so Callen had to improvise. Deliberately, he got in Sam's face. "Out of the way. Now!" he commanded emphasizing his message with a small shove. "You've done enough," he added further provoking the stressed man.

Exploding to his feet, Sam cocked his fist and punched Callen in the right side of the face. Callen stumbled under the force of the blow before falling to the ground, blood running from the newly formed cut under eye. 'Well' thought Callen. "He'd met his object, getting Sam out of the way, but boy it had hurt.' After waiting a moment for his head to clear, the smaller man slowly made his way back to his feet.

With a strangled cry, Sam reached out and pulled his slightly battered partner into an embrace. "I'm sorry G."

"It's alright Sam.," Callen said calmly. When Sam finally released him, G took a step back looked up at his partner and said, "I'm sure I deserved that for something I've done to you in the past."

Sam clapped his hands on the shorter man's shoulders and looked deep into his partner's and friend's blue eyes. "I…am…sorry…G."

Under the intense scrutiny, Callen nearly lost it, biting down once again on his lower lip to remind himself that his job was to be strong for the team. Mercifully, Sam quickly released him and Callen was able to get himself under control. "You good?" he asked in a tight voice.

"As good as I can be," the big man replied dolefully.

Callen glanced up to where Kensi was still sitting on the fire escape, as he absentmindedly wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he tried to recall if this was his jacket; if it was from wardrobe he was going to have to pay to have it dry cleaned. Hetty did not approve of her agents using their sleeves as make-shift rags.

"Go help Kensi," Sam said. "But watch out for her left hook or you'll be sporting two black eyes tomorrow."

The corner of Callen's mouth rose enough to let Sam know the apology was received and accepted.

"I'll stay with the bod…," Sam paused, swallowing hard, "Dom until they are ready to…" Callen nodded, not needing his partner to finish the sentence. After a final glance at Dom, Callen headed off across the rooftop.

-NCIS-LA-

Crossing the roof, he stopped at the base of the staircase, trying to figure out how he was going to get to Kensi's location. The way was barred by a high, locked, gate. Formulating a plan, he moved quickly up the stairs, two by two, until he got to the chain-link fence. Leaping, he landed partway up the fence then proceeded to claw his way up and over. The rusty metal dug into his palms but he didn't notice. On the way down, he tried to jump clear of the dead jihadist, but a sickening crunch and being thrown off balance, told him he did not succeed. Unbalanced, he was pitched, shoulder first, into the brick wall, agony momentarily blinding him as a wave of pain flooded his body. Gasping for breath, he fought to regain his footing and his composure.

Shoving his latest injury aside, he moved to Kensi and slowly knelt down in front her, gently removing the gun from her hand and laying it on the grating. He waited quietly for a few seconds to gauge how she wanted to play this out. If she wanted to hit him, fine; cry on his shoulder him, fine; whatever she needed he'd give it to her. Without warning, she threw herself at him and they both crashed to the metal deck. She wrapped her arms around him and started to sob on his shoulder. Luckily, she was leaning mostly against his good shoulder; a good thing because judging by his current pain level and queasiness, he was pretty sure the other one was dislocated. He was suddenly grateful that Sam had punched him in the face because it gave him an excuse to have a swollen lip. Once again he bit down on it so hard that he draw blood. It was the only way to keep his pain at bay and maintain his composure.

Callen wasn't sure how long the two stayed in their sad embrace, but he knew it was time to move out when, monitoring the situation below, he saw Sam heading for the door that went into the building. He gently pulled back from Kensi and said, "Come on." Rising slowly to his feet, he extended his good arm to help her up.

"Thanks G," she softly said.

He lightly reached over and brushed the tears from her flushed cheeks. "Anything for you Kens," he whispered. Bending, he retrieved her gun and handed it back to her. "Don't want to forget this. You know Hetty will dock you for it which won't be half as bad as the lecture she'll give you on being responsible for items bought with the taxpayer's money." Smiling, she holstered it and they headed back into the building.

-NCIS-LA-

The teammates met up in the lobby with Kensi and Sam doing a quick, but comforting embrace before they all headed outside. Police tape was up, emergency responders, news crews, everyone was at the party. Callen knew it was time for him and his team to vanish; all the work, none of the glory, though in this case there was no glory, just a dead comrade.

"Let's go," he said herding them towards Kensi's car. "We'll take one car back. I'll drive. Eric," he said on the comm link. "Send someone to pick up Sam's car." No one argued with him.

"Roger that," answered the subdued, tear-stained voice of the techno geek. There was no doubt the folks back in Ops were suffering the effects of Dom's death too.

Callen took the keys and got behind the wheel with Sam riding shot gun and Kensi in the rear. When he went to insert the key into the ignition, he realized he had a slight problem; he wasn't able to extend his right arm enough to get the key in the ignition because of his shoulder. Implementing Plan B, an awkward but effective move that thankfully went unnoticed by his team, he managed a left-handed insertion and cranked the starter. Initially, he thought he was in the best shape, at least mentally, to drive; what he hadn't taken into consideration was his physical impairment. Once the car roared to life, his concern vanished; he'd driven one-handed before and it was not that different from his normal driving, which perhaps, he thought, wasn't saying much.

As they got closer to their 'home', he started worrying about facing her again, the woman in Ops he'd made a promise to and broke.

-NCIS-LA-

The mood in the building was oppressive and the returning team did nothing to lighten it. A subdued Hetty met them as they came down the hallway. The team halted and looked at her, guilt and remorse written on their faces.

Clearing her throat she stated, "This has been a tragic day for all of us. I know each and every one of you did your best. It simply wasn't meant to be."

Each member of the team handled her words in their own fashion; Kensi dropped her head, tears welling up in her eyes. Sam lifted his chin, closed his eyes and appeared to be praying. Callen clenched his jaw and stared off into the distance.

"There is nothing more to be gained here tonight. Go home people. Tomorrow is soon enough to," Hetty choked up a bit, "do the paperwork."

Callen resurfaced and looking at Hetty inquired, "Eric?"

"Sent home, along with Nate." She hesitated, then added, "Mr. Getz will be available in the morning to offer his…services." Callen gave a quick nod of understanding.

With that, Hetty slowly mounted the stairs to her office and even though there wasn't a door, Callen swore he heard one close, softly.

"Give me a ride home G?" Sam asked before he noticed his partner staring moodily at the departing back of their Boss. Changing gears quickly, he said, "Never mind, I'll go with Kensi."

Callen gratefully glanced over at Sam, gave a curt nod, and then walked away. Kensi looked questionably up at Sam. "Is he OK?"

Sam watched the retreating figure, glanced at Hetty's office and then back to Kensi. "Yeh. He just has some unfinished business."

"He comforts us. Who comforts him?" she pondered aloud.

Sam glanced over at Hetty's office again. "Same person that has always comforted him… no one."

"That's sad Sam."

"That is who he is. He knows he can come to us, might not do it, but he knows we're here. That is more than he ever had before in his life. For G, that might just be enough."

With a last look at their departing leader, the duo sighed, then left the building.

-NCIS-LA-

Callen stood by the sink, one arm hugging his chest, the other braced against the sink, staring at the water circling the drain. He kept trying to figure out where he went wrong today. A dozen 'what-if' scenarios ran through his mind as he sought to determine where they had failed; where he had failed Dom. Shaking his head in frustration, he splashed cool water against his face then gasped when it seeped into the wound on his cheek. With a mirthless laugh, he turned off the water as one Hetty's lectures on water consumption and the resultant bill, played in his mind

Hetty. Damn. He still had to face her. A big part of him wanted to run away, turn his back on this whole situation like he had in the past when dealings got too emotional. But it wasn't an option earlier on the rooftop and it wasn't an option now. This time, he cursed at himself, he'd let people into his life and they had proceeded to sneak into his heart as well. They were his…family; a strange but wondrous event to the man who had nothing and expected nothing.

Raising his head, he studied himself in the mirror. It was a sorry sight. With a deep sigh, he left the men's room to search out his Boss, finding the diminutive ninja at her desk, staring at a screen he knew she wasn't seeing. Without asking, he eased himself into the chair on the far side of the desk and sat silently waiting.

"Tea?" she finally inquired.

"I'd rather have that Scotch hidden in your desk, preferably in a quantity that will make me pass out," he answered honestly.

"So be it," she said setting two crystal glasses on her desk before removing her precious stash and filling the vessels to the rim.

Callen reached with his left hand for the overly full glass, splashing a little on her blotter.

"Careful, Mr. Callen. This is very rare."

G gazed into the depths of the glass before raising it and his eyes to meet Hetty's. "Dom," he said succinctly.

"Dom," she echoed.

The blonde agent took long, deep, swallows and winced as the fiery liquid burned its way to his soul. After taking a second draft that considerably reduced the amount of scotch in glass, he addressed Hetty. "I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise."

Hetty took a long swig before replying. "I'm the one who is sorry, Mr. Callen. I had no right to put you in that position. I…," her voice broke slightly, "asked you for something you had no hopes of achieving."

"You know I would go to hell and back for you," Callen responded sincerely.

"And I think you have Mr. Callen...G…I think you have."

G she never called him G and because of that small gesture, Callen finally broke down, letting the tears he refused to shed in front of his team stream down his face.

Wordlessly, Hetty got up from her desk and moved to her agent's side, gently placing her small hand on his trembling back. Gently, she reached out and raised his chin, studying his face. "I think that cut needs medical attention."

"Sam has a mean uppercut," he deflected, trying to get his emotional feet back under him.

"Hands out, palms up," she commanded and he obeyed, though he could not hide the wince as he tried to comply with his right hand.

Hetty made a tsking sound as she examined the abraded skin. "Good thing your tetanus booster is up to date. Now about that shoulder," Hetty reached over and refilled his glass. "Drink up. We need you good and inebriated to put it back in place since I am assuming you will not go to the hospital to have it attended to properly."

Callen gave a quick negative nod and drained half his glass.

"As I thought. So, we'll do it here. I think I'll employ the Cunningham Shoulder Reduction method. While I am sure your He-Man side might like to try the Mel Gibson, Lethal Weapon approach, I think my method will ultimately produce better results and," she said with a slight smile, "save my file cabinets from an unnecessary beating." Taking the half empty glass from her agent, she top it off before handing it back. "Drink up," she demanded as she moved back to her chair. Callen was happy to follow that order.

"So when was the last time you have eaten?" she queried as she sat down.

Callen took another long swig before attempting to shrug his shoulders in reply. "Not really sure," he replied, voice tight with pain.

"Good, then this should move along nicely."

"Hetty, I don't get drunk. I have a fairly high tolerance for alcohol. Buzzed maybe, drunk rarely."

"I have no doubt about your self-control but for tonight, let's throw caution to the wind. Don't fight it, get drunk… that's a direct order." She paused then asked, "You're what, about 165?"

"160," he parried. "Been working out."

"Hmmm, more likely caused by the closing of the doughnut shop on Vine."

Callen threw her a dirty look before taking another gulp. "Dom was a good man."

"Yes he was."

"And he would have been a good operator."

"No doubt."

"Sam was bringing him along nicely, tough but thorough." Callen drained his glass and held it out for more. "Sam blames himself. For Dom's death."

"And it is your job to ease him past that," Hetty said as she refilled his glass.

"Don't I know it," he retorted tipping his head to show off shiner. He raised his glass high and said "За нашу дружбу!" The agent downed half his glass as if it was a shot. Long minutes passed, before he spoke again. "You plan to pair Kensi with Deeks," he mused.

"Perhaps."

Callen drank some more. "Is that a good idea?"

"Only time will tell."

"And I suppose it is my job to make them gel?"

"No Mr. Callen, that is my job. Your job is to get the whole team to 'gel' and get them past Dom's death."

Callen leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "And how will you get past Dom's death?" he asked opening his eyes and letting his blue ones bore into her brown ones.

Hetty sighed. "One day at a time." Callen downed some more scotch. "And you Mr. Callen. How will you get past Dom's death?"

Dropping his eyes to study his glass, Callen really didn't answer. "Like I always do."

Hetty shook her head sadly. After another period of inward contemplation, interrupted only by Hetty's refilling of Callen's glass, the Ops Manager finally stood up, grabbing the nearly finished bottle and announced, "Come on, Mr. Callen. Let's move this party elsewhere."

"Why?" Callen asked as he got to his feet. When he noticed he was none to steady he said with surprise, "Whoa."

"Steady, Mr. Callen. If you fall, I'm not sure I can drag you to the couch. You might end up spending the night on the floor."

"Won't be the first time," he replied glibly.

"I suppose not, but I don't want you falling and hurting yourself so let's carefully relocate to the bullpen shall we?"

Definitely not sober, Callen started to follow after her before suddenly stopping. "I gotta take a piss, but," he slyly added, "I'm sure you already knew that."

"Actually, I didn't."

"Aw come on Hetty. You know everything," he replied earnestly.

"Be that as it may… why don't you go, ah, take care of business and meet me in the lounge."

"Sure thing," he replied weaving his way to the men's room. "And don't worry, I won't miss."

"TMI, Mr. Callen. TMI."

While Callen wandered off, Hetty gathered her medical kit and headed for the bullpen. She carefully placed the scotch bottle and her kit on the table.

A short time later, a definitely sloshed G sauntered into the bullpen and plopped down on the couch with a grunt. "I washed my hands, even though it stung like a #ucking son of a bitch," he said holding them out for her inspection.

Hetty flinched at his choice of words but dutifully inspected his hands. "Very nice but they still need to be cleaned with disinfectant."

"Now? But that will hurt. Could you wait until I pass out?" he pleaded.

"But if you are unconscious, how will I get your consent?"

"Oh come on Hetty. In all the years I have worked for you I never gave consent for you to treat me but you always do it anyway." His words of truth were followed by the draining of his glass, which he had snatched off the table.

"Touché."

"'xactly," he slurred. Callen's mind, let loose by the alcohol, squirrelled off in a new direction. "You know that sexual harassment stuff you torture us with each year? Well I actually do pay attention. I could bring you up on charges," he noted as seriously as his inebriated state would allow.

"Really?" she said skeptically.

"Ah-uh. Remember the time your poked my behind with that spear-like-thing? Harassment. And how about the time you stuck that tongue depressor down my throat. I think that would count too."

"I see. And would you like to file a report?" she asked humoring him.

"Nah, just busting your chops. You take good care of us...like a mother should," he finished. "Which of course you aren't 'cause I don't have mother. Sam said I was raised by wolves. I was born alone and will die alone."

"Mr. Callen, you are a becoming a remorse drunk."

"I don't get drunk Hetty," the plastered agent reminded her. "Drinking causes you to lose control. I don't lose control." He slurped down the rest of the glass before holding it out to Hetty. "More please?" he asked doing his best Oliver Twist imitation.

Hetty removed the glass from his none-to-steady hand saying "I think you have had quite enough."

"The room is spinning, unless you have had Eric install some new secret weapon." After pausing for a breath he added, "Whoa, I'm feeling queasy."

"No surprise there considering the amount of my good scotch in your system," she mused as she used her foot to slide a trash can within his reach. She wasn't about to have him ralphing on her rugs. "Ok, time to get that shoulder back where it belongs. Now I am going to need a little help from you to accomplish this task. First, you have to move your arm close to your chest. Then, I am going to massage your bicep and when I tell you, I need you to move your shoulder up and back. With a bit of luck it will pop nicely into place."

"And if it doesn't?" he asked warily.

"Well then there is always the file cabinet."

"This sounds like it is gonna hurt. One more drink?"

"Absolutely not. Can't have you passing out before we accomplish this mission. Now turn sideways and put your legs on the couch."

"Should I take my shoes off first? You usually yell at Eric when he puts his shoes on something."

"For the record, Mr. Beale wears flip-flops. I do not consider them proper footwear. Please feel free to take your boots off."

After a bit of a struggle, Callen finally managed to remove them, placing the boots carefully next to the couch.

"Neatly," he pointed out to Hetty.

"So noted. Now legs extended on couch, bad shoulder facing me."

Callen did as instructed.

"Good. Hold your arm like this," she said maneuvering his limb into the correct position. Once she had it properly aligned, she started massaging his bicep. Callen closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift. So far this felt kind-of-good, as long as he didn't think too hard about the fact it was his sixty-year-old boss was massaging him. He felt his arm and shoulder relaxing.

"Ok, Mr. Callen. Now, I need you to move your arm up and back," she requested in a soothing voice.

"Whatever you say Boss." There was the slight popping noise as his shoulder slid back into place. This was quickly followed by a huge wave of pain which caused him to yelp. "That hurt like hell Hetty!" he accused her right before he passed out.

"Huh, guess the scotch wasn't as effective for pain control as I thought it would be," she mused looking down at her unconscious employee. "Sorry Mr. Callen. But since you are out cold, now would probably be a good time to douse those wounds of yours with disinfectant. After all, you did give me consent… I think," she said as she dug through her medical kit for the required supplies.

When she was satisfied she had done a thorough job, she cleaned up her debris and took a seat in the nearby chair, studying her 'pain in the asset'. Reaching for her glass, she took a small sip. She had done him wrong today, making him promise something he had no hopes of delivering. "My bad," she said aloud. She would have to be more careful in the future.

She settled back in her chair intending to keep vigil through the night and to be there if he awoke and needed something or someone. 'Hmmm, I should take his guns away,' she thought. It would just be her luck that someone would blunder across him, try to wake him and the seriously hung over agent would shoot them; that would not make for a good after action report.

She removed his two guns from his person and secured them in his locker. Debating whether she should handcuff him for the safety of his fellow employees, she finally voted not to reasoning it might cause additional injuries. No, she would sit here and keep watch over him until we woke, on his own, with a monster headache. Raising her glass in a final toast she said, "Dom, Requiescat in pace. Discipulus, Scolasticus, Amicus. You died too young."


End file.
